


Nothing Left to Say

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek Leaves, Episode AU: s04e12 Smoke & Mirrors, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is sitting at his computer desk, watching Stiles over the cover of a book that’s been on Stiles’ shelf for nearly as long as he’s been alive. Derek’s fingers have left their prints in the dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left to Say

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Nic do dodania](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229297) by [Pomyluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomyluna/pseuds/Pomyluna)



> Quick and dirty fill for the prompt: 'We can never be together' kiss.
> 
> Computer crashed and I lost the first half of this once, so if anything looks awkward, that's why.

The day after they get back from Mexico, Stiles sleeps for twenty-two hours. 

He wakes half blinded in sunlight — disoriented, heart pounding with adrenaline, perception of time slip-slidey and wrong — and by the time he’s aware enough to track the position of the sun in the sky and realize how long he’s been asleep, he is calm again. 

Derek Hale is sitting at his computer desk, watching Stiles over the cover of a book that’s been on Stiles’ shelf for nearly as long as he’s been alive. Derek’s fingers have left their prints in the dust.

“Awake?” Derek asks, cocking one eyebrow skyward. Once, that expression would have made Stiles want to beat him until even werewolf healing couldn’t heal the bruises. Now, it relaxes him.

He nods sharply, groaning at the series of pops and cracks that sound from his spine when he pushes himself upright.

“So,” he drawls, when he was awake enough to do more than blink blearily at Derek. “You’re alive. Unexpected, that.”

The corner of Derek’s lip quirks up, and he lets the book shut, gently placing it at his feet.

 _More’s the pity_ , Stiles would have said once.  _An absolute tragedy._

He doesn’t know when bitter sarcasm became simple truth. When he stopped thinking of Derek dying with indifference or cruel malice, but started dreading it. Now, it would be a tragedy.

“Surprise,” Derek murmurs, voice deadpan, that little half-smile still in place.

And it is, a surprise that is, that in the aftermath of everything, Derek’s the one climbing to his feet and coming to stand at the foot of Stiles’ bed. Not Malia, or Scott, or Lydia, or any of them that have a  _right_  to be here, but Derek. Derek, who Stiles has barely seen since before a fox made a nest of his insides.

He watches Derek, eyes narrowed shrewdly. There’s something off about the way he’s standing, a tension in his bones that shouldn’t be there anymore, and it just feels wrong. He lets out a breath when he realizes, head thumping back against the headboard.

“You’re leaving again,” he says, words heavy with accusation. He wonders what it means that Derek flinches at that. Minute and hardly there, but a flinch nevertheless.

Derek breathes out slowly, eyes fixed to Stiles’. He nods, never once breaking eye contact, and Stiles has to force himself to look away. He stares out the window instead, watching one of the neighborhood kids go sprinting by after a girl on a purple bicycle.

By the time Stiles looks back, he’s smiling again, mask set firmly in place.

“Cool,” he makes himself say, licking his suddenly dry lips, stomach churning. “That’s badass, man. Where you going this time? South America, again?”

For a moment, Derek looks like he’s going to go along with it  — play right along with Stiles’ pitiful small talk and their goodbyes are going to be easy, simple, and never once belying the turmoil that they both know lies beneath.

The moment passes. Derek’s eyes flash, not the way that wolves’ do, but like a humans, all determination and steely resolve. He takes a breath, puts a knee on the corner of Stiles’ bed, as if testing the way it dips under his weight.

Stiles watches Derek stalk up the bed towards him and breathes in, soft and wounded when Derek’s palm finds his jaw. He cups it carefully, as if Stiles is something cherished, something worthy, and strokes hesitantly with his thumb.

They don’t say anything. Stiles looks at Derek, and Derek looks at him. They watch each other, always have, never putting to words what needs said. What, Stiles thinks, will probably never be said.

Gently, Derek draws Stiles in, until they’re breathing the same air. Derek is warm where they’re pressed together, thigh to hip, their bodies barely touching. He hovers there, eyes flicking from Stiles’ to his lips and back again.

Stiles sighs once, and lets it happen. 

Their lips drag together, such a simple moment of contact, yet more electric than anything he’s ever felt. Stiles shudders when Derek does, one hand falling to Derek’s hips, the other going to the back of his skull. 

He lets it happen again, pulls Derek in for a deeper kiss, and feels Derek’s weight shift and settle more firmly in the cradle of Stiles’ lap. 

They kiss and kiss, until Stiles’ lips are bruised and swollen, until every part of him inside the fragile cage of his bones aches, and then Derek reaches between them, sliding his hand under the band of Stiles’ sweats.

They don’t say never. They don’t talk at all, really. They talk as they always have, with their eyes, or in gestures alone. And when it’s over, they don’t have to say that it won’t happen again.

 


End file.
